August in the lab
by Newtinmpls
Summary: Sometimes if you want to get paid, you have to rescue Mr. Johnson. Rated M for implied torture.
1. Chapter 1

The sound of screaming jerked August into wakefulness. Before she quite realized it, she'd run to the front of her cell, hands wide and pressed against the plexiglass door, heart pounding. A man's voice in full-throated agony. There was only one other person being questioned; the elven Mr. Johnson. It had to be him.

Then the nasal voice of Bradley Grimm, the head technician, pitched to be heard over the screams. "Get those damn cuffs off of him."

Her eyes flickered to the rune marked cuffs on her own wrists. He couldn't be a mage, or they'd have cuffed him before the initial tranquilizers had worn off. She glanced again toward the main lab. Unfortunately she couldn't see much from her vantage in the cell. She closed her eyes and concentrated, listening.

The screaming stopped, blessedly. It was quiet. She could hear what must be the same man, his breathing coming ragged and heavy, almost sobs. Other than that, nothing. Why? What was going on out there?

"My God," The hesitant voice was familiar. Rogerson, who usually sat at the foot of the chair and did the actual questioning. "Those are second, maybe third degree burns."

"Obviously." The cold, feminine voice was familiar enough to send a shiver through August. She was one of the higher ranking Mr. Johnson's, whose actual name was Selina Parker. She was known, and avoided, by most of the subordinates. "I think that using these cuffs can give him sufficient motivation to answer your questions."

"I think otherwise." Bradley Gimm's voice was full of irritation. "If you have sufficient authority to remove him from my care, then by all means, do so. Otherwise I will conduct my interviews as I see fit."

Even from her cell, August could feel the tension between them. She shivered, glad not to be the one strapped into the chair between them.

"I would willingly answer the questions." It was the ragged voice of the Mr. Johnson they had been questioning.

August blinked. He was actually coherent after all that?

"I've tried to explain."

"Dear, dear Winston," Selina's voice dripped honey and sarcasm in equal parts. "Details are for stage one of recall. You are in stage two."

"I can't have been here that long." The Mr. Johnson's voice was more confused than fearful.

"You were transferred to us after an unsuccessful session with one of the other labs." Mr. Grimm sounded even more irritated now. "They couldn't break you. So we have a week here to figure out what's blocking the truth."

"I was never in stage one."

"Don't bother calling me a liar, traitor." Selina's voice was an affectionate purr.

"As I said," Mr. Grimm's voice was sharp enough to draw blood. "We have work to do here. After Mr. Johnson's wrists are bandaged, we'll let him rest for a bit and begin again later." There was a pause, and he added. "If you have just come to see the show, it's over for now."

"Oh don't worry, I'll be back later."

"Understood."

August could hear the sharp steps of someone in heels walking to the executive elevators. Selina was leaving.

"Get him out of that chair."

August sagged against the door. While she was sympathetic to the Mr. Johnson, the immediate prospect for her was less than hopeful. They were somewhat understaffed, and currently they were only questioning one person at a time. If he were getting a rest, it would be her turn.

She walked back and sat on the unyielding bunk. She stared at the plexiglass door. Faintly, she could see her reflection. A slender woman with tousled red hair and green eyes. The disposable blue coveralls she was wearing were still stained with sweat, and worse. At least she hadn't been sick on this pair. They were all she had on, save the rune-inscribed cuffs.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. She'd worked for Abbot Northwest since she'd been eighteen. Six years. Both her parents had worked for the company. It was Abbot testing that revealed her potential as a mage, and Abbot tutoring that had brought it out. Helped her through puberty, when if unchanneled, her new magical abilities might have killed her, as they did so many children each year. She'd been glad to work for them, to try and begin to pay back what they had done for her.

She'd joined the company magical lodge; and it had been like another family. Fellow mages, people who understood how she saw the world. Nights where she and her mentor Festin Relman had drank coffee and talked till dawn. She could still remember his patient voice steadying her the first time she called a fire elemental out of the candle he'd set before her.

The world had been so different once she'd become a mage. The shapes, the feel of things around her had changed. What she saw with her new abilities had been breathtaking, beautiful. Now, with the cuffs blocking her abilities, she felt like she was blind, or deaf. Like a large part of the world was cut off.

When her parents had died in a plane accident, Abbot people had been there for her. The company lodge had been there for her. Cards, people who would listen when she just needed to talk, or to weep. They had been her family.

And then she had met Tiffany. Tiffany Hacker, investigative reporter for City Pages. She had a bad reputation among the corps, but August discounted that. Tiffany had reported, and thus revealed, some pretty awful stuff, and helped innocent people who were being hurt. Abbot Northwest could only benefit by other, less scrupulous corps being targeted.

More than that, the vivacious, charming woman she'd met at the Art Institute Mayan Exhibit Opening, was nothing like the voracious harpy that gossip had painted her. They had become friends, and rather quickly had become more than friends.

Some of August's friends at work had cautioned her, but she ignored them. What was idle gossip compared to time spent with Tiffany? She was smart, and funny, and wonderful.

Any mage had hobbies that intertwined with her craft; August's was silver smithing; although technically she worked more often in gold. She started work on a ring for Tiffany, intending to propose. She'd finished it last week. She'd showed it to Festin, her mentor; her best friend in the lodge.

Now he was sitting out there in the lab, waiting to probe her with magic, waiting to help them question her when it was her turn to be interrogated. He'd been her closest, most trusted friend in the company. He'd put the cuffs on her. Tiffany hadn't changed her perception of Abbot. Festin had done that.

Sounds brought her back to the present. Footsteps, many footsteps, as the lab technicians walked Mr. Johnson back to his cell. There came the scraping sound of the Barghests' claws against the tile floor. They were only there as protection, but they always seemed to be interested in Mr. Johnson. Maybe because he was an elf? She wasn't sure.

She heard Festin's whistle, calling the Barghests back to the main lab.

Bradley Grimm was saying, "We can finish your session later. There is always other work we can do."

August looked up at that, knowing that he was talking about her. The Mr. Johnson glanced her way, and just for a moment, their eyes met. He was slender and blonde, a stereotypically handsome elf. Despite the bruising on his face, and the bandages on his wrists, he moved with grace and dignity.

After that brief moment, he glanced away from August and paused. Almost by reflex, one of the techs escorting him shoved a stun baton into the lower left side of his torso. It was on a low enough power setting to cause pain, but not knock him out. He hissed through clenched teeth, as if he'd been expecting it.

"Mr. Johnson?" Mr. Grimm frowned.

"I am ready to finish the session now. I look forward to explaining my innocence."

There was a pause. The other two technicians looked at each other. Mr. Grimm finally said. "This is level two."

"Even so."

Mr. Grimm glanced toward August's cell, and his frown deepened for a moment. Then he shrugged. "Very well, then. We shall continue."

They turned around, and walked him back to the main lab.

August watched him go. He never looked back at her again. He just left, letting himself be led back to one of the questioning chairs. He'd bought her maybe another hour of peace.

She lay on the cot and silently wept.

For two more days it went on. Sleep deprivation, and whatever drugs they were using would have made it hard to tell the days, but she counted shifts by listening to the voice of whoever was head tech at the moment. Three changes meant twenty-four hours.

The asked her about Tiffany. They asked her about her relationship to Tiffany. They asked her about her loyalty to the company. Between the drugs, and Festin's magical prompting, she told them the truths they were looking for. She loved Tiffany, and would support any investigation the woman made. She hated Abbot Northwest, and would gladly betray it. She would willingly kill her mentor.

They ignored the fact that this lab had altered her perceptions of Abbot, had opened her eyes to a side of the company she'd not suspected, not wanted to see or even imagine. Sometimes that hurt worse than anything else they did to her.

Mr. Johnson never stopped trying to explain himself, as if by sheer stubbornness he could convince people who were being paid to torture him, people being paid only to hear what they were instructed to. Listening to him be questioned was almost as bad as her own sessions. It was obvious to her that he'd been framed, that he couldn't have been through a level one session. It was clear that he was in fact much more loyal, even now, than she was.

Where she swore at her tormentors and spat at Festin, Mr. Johnson never seemed to lose his air of dignity and determination. She admired that. She also suspected that it was just going to get him killed faster. She, at least, was giving them what they wanted.

Three days later, things changed. The elevators opened, and she heard the sharp clicking of Mr. Selina Johnson's heels. Instead of going right into the main lab, she walked toward the cells.

August kept her head down, shifting position slightly so that she could watch unobtrusively while her hair obscured things.

The room seemed to darken as Selina walked into the cell area. August shivered, and then realized that the sharp-faced, auburn-haired Mr. Johnson was not alone. Waking with her, close behind her was a dark man wearing reflective sunglasses and a black trench coat. He moved with the easy confidence of a predator. Beside them was another man, big enough to be muscle of some kind, a tall alert blonde woman and, well, August blinked, a bag lady.

The dark man opened one of the other cells, and gestured for Selina to enter it. In a mild tenor voice, he said. "Stay quiet, unless you would prefer to be spattered all over the walls." The tone sent shivers through her.

The blonde looked at him quizzically, and then smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "You do have a way with words, Johnny."

Then they opened another cell, and put the muscled man into it. As he backed into the cell, he held his hands up, as if to show that he carried no weapons. "I know, I know, be quiet." He said.

"Quieter." Snapped the blond woman.

Behind them, the bag lady started exploring the closet at the end. She was carrying a plastic bag that said 'Community Plus' on it. She took several more bags out of it, and then started filling it with Basic Issue coveralls from the closet.

August sat up on her cot. No one in the lab seemed to notice what was going on here. Although that wasn't unusual. When ViP's visited, the normal reaction was to ignore them as much as possible.

The blonde had turned away, and was examining the lockers on the opposite wall of the cells. She appeared to have a maglock card wired to a small device, and she was rapidly opening each locker in turn. Only two of them had anything in them. August's things, and Mr. Johnson's.

The trench-coated man looked at August for a moment, and then turned to the blonde. "Lee. There is someone else here in the cells."

Lee left the supplies she'd been examining and walked over to stand in front of August's cell. In a quiet voice, she asked. "Can you help us?"

"Can you get these off of me?" August held out her wrists, showing the rune cuffs.

Lee smiled, and unlocked the door to the cell. "Not a problem."

From the lab came Bradly Grimm's insistent voice, asking the same series of questions. Mr. Johnson was struggling to answer them, his voice slurred with drugs, pain and sleep deprivation.

"We came to get Mr. Johnson," Lee said matter-of-factly. "Would you like to come with us?"

As she spoke, she was working at the cuffs with a delicate set of lock picks. The bag lady came over. "I think that you might need some other kinds of help." She started petting the cuffs, and murmured something.

There was an audible click. Lee smiled. "Thank you Madeline, that did it."

As the cuffs were removed, August slumped against the wall of the cell. The sudden onslaught of sensation was almost overwhelming. She saw colors, and heard voices. Energies shimmered about her. She recalled having had too much to drink, and almost losing control of the magic. That had been a long time ago, and it had only happened once. This was worse. The drugs they'd used to interrogate her were still in her system and now out of the cuffs, they were affecting her, affecting her magic. Between that, and the sleep deprivation, she could feel it slipping away from her control. She tried to reach out with her mind, to fix it, but she was only making things worse. Energy rose around her like a cloud; she could almost see the flame about to be unleashed.

Then cool hands touched her temples, and a soft voice whispered to her. She felt as if a wind was blowing through her, refreshing her. Things seemed to stabilize around her. She opened her eyes, still tired, still sore, but now in control of herself, and her magic.

The bag lady, no, Madeline, was standing in front of her, looking not really at her, but sort of through her. "All better?"

If August had just kept her eyes closed, that question would have been much more reassuring.

"Yes, I'm better." She spoke quietly, "I'll need some of my things. I can take the mage out for you." She was looking forward to that.

All of her spell focus materials had been her jewelry, and though Festin would probably claim them later, he'd not legally been able to do so before her questioning was done. She sorted her things, and found the ring she was looking for. Putting it on, she said. "I'm ready."

The man with the trench coat came over to her. The mirrorshades he was wearing obscured his eyes. For some reason August found herself glad of that. "We have supplies; concussion grenades, phosphorus grenades, guns. Is there something you would like to use as a weapon?"

Phosphorus grenades. Fire. Her best summoning abilities were with fire. She'd assumed that it wouldn't be an option. "How long does a phosphorus grenade burn?"

He considered it. "About 36 seconds. Long enough to blind anyone fool enough to look at one."

She shook her head. "What I need is the fire, and that's long enough. There is a mage out there to assist with the questioning. I'll take him." Her voice sounded cold, even to her.

Lee nodded. "It has a ten second fuse. I'll count to six and then throw it. Are we ready?"

She switched the grenade to her left hand, and taking a 9mm glock from her shoulder holster, she carefully screwed a silencer onto the end of it.

As she worked, she murmured, "Now, Madeline," She pointed in the direction of the elevators. "Beyond that wall are two rooms full of people, including at least two guards and a mage at a security desk. If they find out what we are doing here, they will call for help, and lost of people with guns will come and hurt us, and the Mr. Johnson that we are here to save." She paused. "Can you make the people in the other rooms go to sleep, and keep them that way for a while?"

Madeline stared at the wall, with that same distracted expression she'd turned on August, and then nodded, as if she was counting the people in the other room, that she couldn't possibly actually see. "Yes, they can take a good nap. It's nice for people to take a nap after lunch."

Lee looked momentarily worried and then shrugged. "Good."

They moved quietly to the main lab area. Mr. Johnson was strapped into one of the interrogation chairs. His eyes were unfocused. IV bags of something greenish were hooked up to hep-locks in his arms. He looked pale and terrible. August wondered if he was dying.

Ignoring him, and the technicians attending him, Madeline turned, seemingly looking through the elevators to the lab and security desk on the other side of the sub-basement. Lee pulled the pin on the grenade and held up her fingers, counting. At six, she slid it out, across the floor to center of the lab.

The two Barghests ignored the grenade, sitting silently, watching Mr. Johnson. The two lower ranking technicians turned, following the grenade with quizzical expressions. Bradley Grimm had been sitting in a swivel chair next to Festin Relman. They both turned, just in time to see not only the grenade, but August herself.

For a moment it seemed to August that everything froze. She thought she would always remember the look on Festin's face, quizzical interest changing to understanding, and then a grim, determined smile. That he could smile like that shouldn't have hurt, after everything else.

The phosphorus grenade went off with a hiss; blazing light overwhelmed the room. The Barghests stood out against it like huge black shadows. All four of the Abbot employees clutched at their eyes. Festin swore.

As soon as the grenade started blazing, August concentrated on it, on the heat, on the fire. Calling with all her power, opening it up.

Johnny pointed his revolver, a large gun made larger by a silencer, and in quick succession, he shot the nearest Barghest in the center of the forehead, and then in the heart.

Bradley was in the act of standing up as Lee walked right up to him. She raised the gun to his head as if she was going to threaten him, but when she spoke, it was clearly to all three of the technicians. "Drop to the ground if you don't want to die."

The barghests slowly swung their heads toward Johnny, and in unison, opened their mouths and howled.

The sound ripped through August like claws, and suddenly everything seemed unsteady. She ignored it, eyes mostly closed, still concentrating on the blaze of the phosphorus grenade, forcing it to open, pulling energy out of it, through it. She could feel the resistance, and pushed harder. Distantly she was aware that she'd fallen to her knees, but it didn't matter. Force the gate open, feel the heat, the flame, the power.

Her eyes were watering as she kept her attention on the grenade. Dark against the light, she could see the Barquest that Johnny had shot, give a little shake. It was healing, so quickly that she could see it. So could he. She was close enough to hear him speak, as he raised a second gun, a Desert Eagle automatic.

"Interesting. How about silver?" He shot twice again.

August's magical call was answered with a roar that matched the rage of the Barquests, the flame of the phosphorous grenade stretched open, and a lizardlike figure emerged. It was fifteen feet long and perhaps three and a half feet wide, open jaws revealing teeth of flame, claws leaving hissing melted tracks in the linoleum. She didn't have to articulate her desire. Kill Festin.

Festin extended his hands, letting go the strands of energy he'd started to weave into a spell, and strove to wrestle control of the elemental from her. She could feel his energies. He was older than she was, had been a mage longer. But she'd called it, and fire was the art she knew best. She might die here. He was going to die first.

To his right, Bradley Grimm was blinking, eyes watering, focusing on Lee. He reached into the right pocket of his lab coat and pulled out an air-hypo filled with something blue.

"Wrong answer." Said Lee, and pulled the trigger. Looking to the other two techs, she said. "You will end up on the floor and quiet." They both dropped faster than Bradley Grimm's body.

August's summoned elemental reared up, jaws laced with smoke and flame. The first bite took Festin across the stomach, and she could feel the pain of it ruin his attempt to break her control. She bore down harder, eyes still averted from the blinding flare of the stun grenade, her rage fueling the creature's attack. He'd lied to her. He'd betrayed her.

The second Barghest healed just as fast as the first had done, and they both leapt forward, still howling.

The first went for Johnny's head. He sidestepped it by about an inch, it's jaws brushing his hair as they snapped shut. The second went for his leg. He jumped up, a surprisingly high jump, about three feet up and to one side. As he moved, he dropped the first gun, the one that had held regular rounds. That hand went into his pocket. In a voice tight with concentration he murmured. "I wonder what narcotic rounds will do?"

Festin writhed helplessly in the grip of the salamander's jaws. His voice came as a strangled scream. "August, I was your friend."

She opened her eyes then. She would watch him die. "No, Festin." Her voice was a whisper, unheard under the howling. "I am here, because you never really were my friend." She kept her focus on the creature as its flaming jaws seared closed the wounds of the dying mage.

Madeline was unstrapping the semi-conscious Mr. Johnson. Carefully she pulled the hep-locks out of his arms, and let them dangle, green fluid from the IV's draining onto the floor to mix with the blood that dripped from his arms. Putting her hands to his temples, she began to hum.

Lee kept her gun pointed in the direction of the technicians, who were cowering behind the farthest interrogation chairs. "Johnny," she yelled. "Would you turn off the goddamn dogs."

The Barhests were whirling, still intent on him. He shot the first mid-leap. "I'm working on it."

August sent the salamander after the other one, and they clashed in a shower of sparks and black fur.

The Barghest Johnny had shot seemed to go limp mid-leap. Johnny dodged it easily.

Mr. Johnson seemed to begin to focus on Madeline then. He blinked, and then gently frowned. "I'm sorry, we have not been introduced."

Lee spared him a glance. "We are here to get you out. This is Madeline."

Johnny shot the second Barghest twice, and it went limp in the salamander's embrace. "The dogs are shut off."

The sudden silence made August's ears ring.

Matter-of-factly, he walked over to the one not being consumed by the salamander and garroted it. "Permanently, in fact."

There was the sound of an elevator going up.

Johnny and Lee looked at each other. "Selina."

Lee looked at her watch. "Okay. We have about three minutes to loot this place and get out."

Madeline smiled at that. "I'll go get the coveralls, then."

Shaking her head, Lee took a bag and walked over to the back wall of the lab. She started emptying the shelving, dumping it all into a bag. "So, Johnny, any ideas?"

August closed her eyes, and slumped to sit in the nearest chair. All that work, and they were just going to get caught again.

Johnny was slowly turning. "Looking at the schematics of the building," He paused, and then pointed through the glass doors that separated the two sections of the lab. Beyond them lay several sleeping technicians and two extremely alert, but calm, barghests. "There should be sewer access in that corner of the building."

From the corner of the room, one of the technicians spoke. "There is a hopper there, but it's not big enough for anyone to climb through it."

Johnny smiled. "That will change."

Mr. Johnson was standing up now, looking strained, but alert. He nodded to Lee. "A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Smith."

She smiled at him. "I had to come for you. You haven't paid me yet." She looked at August. "Could you help Madeline; she went back to get the things from the lockers."

August nodded, and got up. As she walked across the lab, she could hear Johnny behind her. He'd taken out the revolver, and was in the process of emptying and reloading it with narcotic rounds. The phosphorus grenade abruptly went out, and she blinked in the semi-darkness. Thirty-six seconds. She swallowed. It had seemed much longer.

Madeline was stuffing the last of the clean coveralls into one of her bags. August smiled uncertainly and said. "Lee asked me to get my and Mr. Johnson's things."

The muscled man was standing in one of the cells. "Don't leave me here."

Lee came into the cell area. "Selina will be back for you shortly."

He pressed his hands against the plexiglass door. "I know. I know, and that's why I want to leave. You should have seen the way she looked at me."

Lee rolled her eyes.

"You don't know what she's like when she gets mad." The man kept his eyes on Lee. "Please."

Madeline offered August a couple of bags; the plastic kind with built in handles. They both said 'Community Plus' on them. August quickly filled them with the things from the two lockers.

Lee unlocked the cell door. "All right, Demetrius," she said. "Just do what you're told, and come with us."

"You won't regret this."

"I already regret it."

As they walked back to the main lab area, Mr. Johnson was saying to Johnny. "You won't need the guns. I can deal with the Barghests."

Johnny tilted his head to examine the elf, and then gestured with his hand to the doors.

Mr. Johnson stood in front of the double glass doors and extended a hand. With the other, he opened the door, and said quietly. "Lay down."

The barquests silently lay. One of them wagged a tail.

Johnny and Lee looked at each other. It was Lee who spoke. "Well, that saves time and ammunition."

It took Johnny only a few minutes to set up the C4 and blow the back wall out of the cleaning room. Just as he'd said, the hole opened into the sewers. The smell of sewage began to permeate the rooms. The water in the bottom of the curved tunnel looked completely uninviting.

Madeline gave a happy little jump and looked like she would have clapped her hands if they hadn't been full of bags. "Now we can go home."

Johnny motioned everyone to go into the tunnel, and began placing more C4. Lee stayed behind, waving people along with her 9mm. She seemed to be keeping a sharp eye on Demetrius.

Mr. Johnson moved cautiously, as if he needed to see his feet to keep his balance. August stayed close to him, not entirely certain if it was to protect him, or because she somehow wanted him to protect her.

They hadn't gone far, when behind them came the sounds of heavy footsteps, and many masculine voices.

"That would be security." Lee said.

"Good." Johnny's voice sounded right at home in the darkness. "Let them come just a little further."

"You there." An authoritative voice through a megaphone. "Stop and return to the lab."

"Oh, that's likely." Said Lee. "We just went to a lot of trouble to leave."

The sound of heavy boots began to echo through the darkness. Johnny raised a hand, and pressed the detonator he was holding. "Brace yourselves."

A blast of wind and noise hit them.

August clutched at Mr. Johnson, and the force of the blast pressed them against the curved wall of the sewer.

There was a moment of silence, and the sound of things falling.

Lee clicked a flashlight on. "Onward."

August stayed close to Mr. Johnson, wondering where they were going.


	2. Chapter 2

After the Bath

Mr. Johnson sat for a moment on the edge of the tub, leaning against the wall. His blonde hair was in disarray, covering his half-closed eyes. The towel that he'd been using to dry himself rested around his shoulders. Droplets of water clung to his legs. It had hurt too much to bend enough to dry them completely.

A gentle knock at the door startled him back to full awareness. He sighed to himself. There were other people waiting to shower. "Yes?" He said softly. His throat still hurt. He suspected that it would for some time.

Madeline's voice was a cautious sing-song. "Maybe some of your other clothes were dusty. If you wanted to, you could wear this." The door opened very slightly, and slender hands held out a rolled up Basic Issue coverall.

He stared at the garment. They'd had him wearing such coveralls in the lab. Employees in recall had an unfortunate tendency to bleed, or vomit or both, depending on the style of questioning, and the strength of the drugs being used. Disposable clothing saved work for the cleaning staff.

He did not want to wear one of those things again. Ever. But Madeline was right; his own clothes weren't clean. He sighed. She meant well. He nodded, and then realizing that she wouldn't see the nod, he started to reach out his hand, and answer her.

Before he got the chance to say anything, she murmured. "Okay," and tossed it the few inches toward his hand. He blinked. Maybe she had just guessed that he would agree to something that made sense. That was probably it.

He stood, slowly. In the mirror he could see that the left side of his face was mostly yellowish healing bruise. It looked terrible, but at least they hadn't broken his jaw. There was quite a bit of bruising, most of it on that side of his body. His early interrogators had been right handed, so most of his left side was one very large, very sore bruise. His lower torso was liberally marked with stun baton bruising, and along his right leg, mostly around the knee were the most recent injuries; a series of small semi-circular burns. Taser marks. The almost track-like marks on his forearms were where they'd had the IV's going in. In the time he'd been there, they'd had to re-thread them each twice, and they hadn't been gentle. There were a few smaller marks from various injections, but most of those weren't really noticeable any more. A little bit of everything, he thought to himself. Probably most of it wouldn't scar.

He slowly folded the towel, and hung it back on the rack.

Then he picked up the coverall. As he pulled it on, he hissed to himself as the fabric brushed against the burns on his right leg, and the worse ones around his wrists. Gently he rolled up the cuffs on the arms of the garment, trying to avoid touching the skin around his wrists and forearms. Wide red bands showed where the iron cuffs had been. Second and third degree burns, although most of the blisters were gone now. Those had been from Selina. God knows how many favors she'd pulled to stop by on her little 'visit'; and she'd added her own personal twist to the questioning; those damnable iron cuffs.

He looked into the mirror again. Fair-haired and blue eyed, he could have been the poster boy for a stereotypical elf. He also happened to have one of the more severe and rare versions of one of the stereotypical fey allergies; he couldn't tolerate the touch of cold iron. Steel, he could tolerate, and that was the right word for it. Most of the time he wore gloves. Actual iron was quite another matter.

Gripping the edge of the sink, he shivered at the memory. Drugged up as he was, he hadn't understood what she meant to do at first. Burning pain had cut through the fog he was in. That and the sound of his skin, reacting to the touch of that metal. That was the first time he'd screamed. The first time they'd had to re-thread the IV needles, when his struggles had pulled them loose. He could still remember Selina's smile as she watched him react.

He shuddered, and then shook his head. It wasn't worth thinking about or dwelling on. At least the pain part wasn't. The question that did remain was how had she known he was one of the few with such a strong reaction?

A gentle knock at the door, and his gaze flickered away from the mirror. Other people were waiting.

"Would you like a sandwich?" It was Madeline again, sounding a little worried.

"I'm fine." He told her. Taking a step toward the door, he let go the sink, and caught himself on the edge of the door. He swallowed, and taking a breath, stood to his full 6'4" height. He was a Tudor, and he was a Mr. Johnson, and he was out of that damn lab. He was going to be all right.

Just as a precaution he kept his left hand casually on the edge of the doorway, and then the wall next to him, as he opened the bathroom door. Deliberately taking a slow and leisurely pace, he examined of the apartment he was in. He followed the left wall, the north wall, past the door to the hallway outside the apartment. As he moved, he could feel every damn bruise, every burn. But he was out of that lab now, and a few days of rest would put him right.

Ahead of him, a comfortable looking sofa waited. All he had to do was keep walking. He would just keep walking, and get to the sofa, and sit down, and rest. He kept his left fingertips touching the wall, ignoring the fact that his hand, in fact his whole arm was starting to tremble. Just look around, he told himself. Look at the apartment. He glanced around, taking it in. The mottled brown carpeting was soft against his bare feet. The walls were painted a shade or two darker, somewhere between dark tan and light brown. The ceiling was white, tiled, and lit by frosted glass cones set along the upper edges of the room. There was a dark brown wooden desk with an older model computer on it and a metal and black leather office chair. Demetrius Robbins, one of Selina's men, was sitting in the chair shuffling some playing cards. The desk set and the brown and green patterned sofa were the only furniture. Along the wall near the kitchen were a couple of piles of clothing and supplies; among them his, waiting to be cleaned and sorted further. There was a single window in the south wall, but wood-tone vertical blinds kept most of the light out. It was a quiet, simple place.

Actually, it could use a painting or two. And maybe a better temperature control, because the room felt hot. It should feel cool after the shower. The blond Mr. Smith that had come for him was talking to Mage August Jensen about something, probably the shower, since Jensen's arms were full of towels, on top of which was a Basic Issue coverall. The dark-garbed man who'd fought the Barghest was standing silently, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He was still wearing trench coat and glasses. Beneath his longcoat, Winston could see the subtle bulges that hinted at weaponry. So Mr. Smith trusted him. From the way the man was watching Demitrius playing solitaire, Winston suspected that trust did not extend to Selina's man. So why was he here? Glancing at the game, he realized two things. Demetrius was cheating. He was also losing.

Madeline was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room, wearing a fresh pair of coveralls and a white lab coat. She was humming something and munching on what looked like an egg-salad sandwich. In her lap was a small rat, nibbling on part of an egg that had fallen out of her sandwich. Occasionally she would nod, as if to someone, but only rarely was she actually looking toward anybody. He glanced away from her.

It was a fairly small room. Lots of people for a place this size, that's probably why it felt warm.

He could feel the strain in his legs as he kept moving. Why did everything hurt so much? Stupid question. He'd spent who knows how long getting the crap beaten out of him, and being pumped full of drugs that only the lab techs knew the names of. Madeline had done something to him that had cleared his head, but of course his body was still reacting to the treatment it had gotten. He just needed some rest. He probably needed some food too. The thought of that made his stomach ripple. He swallowed bile. Food could wait.

Two more cautious steps and he was at the sofa. He reached down, moving his left hand from wall to furniture a bit too fast, and nearly fell in the process. More carefully he moved around the arm of the sofa, and slowly sat down, trying for some sort of dignity, or failing that, hoping to at least avoid falling on his face.

It felt good to sit down. At first he just relaxed.

There were, however, things he needed to consider. He really should ask where they were. He really should pay Mr. Smith. He really should start taking steps to deal with Selina. He didn't really know these people, and after what had happened, all of them were in danger, including himself. Selina hated loose ends. He closed his eyes.

"Mr. Johnson?"

The quiet voice was close enough to startle him. He jolted, which was a mistake because instantly every bruise, every burn started to complain. On the other hand, it meant he wasn't going to fall asleep again. The blonde Mr. Smith was right in front of him. Her hair was freshly washed, and her pale green eyes were set off by the faint sprinkling of freckles across her nose. He hadn't noticed the freckles before. She smelled good. He wondered what kind of shampoo she had used.

"Are you all right?"

He blinked. He'd been staring at her; how rude. "Yes." He managed. When he spoke, his throat hurt, not to mention the side of his face. Staring at her was about the only thing that wasn't painful right now. "Yes, I'm fine."

She nodded, apparently willing to take him at his word, and sat down on the sofa next to him. The cushions shifted, and he clenched his teeth to keep from cursing. Gingerly, he tried to resettle himself.

She started out by summarizing the visit with Selina. He was interested, really he was, but someone must have adjusted the temperature controls and now the room was getting colder.

When she asked him what had happened, he was glad for the distraction. Maybe talking would keep him from thinking about how cold the room was getting.

"I knew that Mr. Johnson," He paused, "Selina Parker, that is, considered me a rival. I underestimated her." He frowned. "I'd say that she seems to have done quite a good job framing me, but the data don't quite support that." He could see the interest spark in Mr. Smith's eyes. The dark garbed man behind her moved a little closer.

"I'd gotten instructions to hire someone for a run on one of Pillsbury's R&D divisions."

Demetrius snorted at that.

Irritated, Winston glared at him.

Mr. Smith spoke sarcastically. "You have something to say?"

"You threw Abbot Northwestern money away on some fool project of your own, Mr. Johnson," the title was dripping with mockery, "and nobody does that to the company."

Winston's eyes narrowed. They'd made the same accusation at the lab, and it was preposterous that anyone had believed it. "In the first place, Mr. Robbins, Johnson level business is not your concern."

There was a flash of something in Demetrius' eyes, and he looked away.

"In the second place, this was the third request I'd gotten for a similar job. The first one was before last Christmas, and the second one was just prior to Easter."

The dark garbed man tilted his head, considering. He seemed intent now.

Mr. Smith looked surprised. "You'd hired this job out before me?"

"Yes. Each time was a one shot attempt to retrieve files on the Traveler project, with a time constraint related to specific dates. Both of the previous runners were highly recommended to me. Both of them failed." It took more work than it should have to keep his voice dispassionate.

"So what is the Traveler project?" It was August who asked.

Demetrius put in. "Some damn excuse for the Brit here to siphon money from Abbot Northwest. The first two times he only took a few thousand, and to a Johnson, that's like an expensive lunch, but when he started wanting more, Mr. Johnson, my Mr. Johnson that is, she found out what he was up to."

Winston's eyes narrowed. It was bad enough to have Selina spreading lies; he wasn't going to put up with it from her lackey.

"Wait a moment," Mr. Smith raised her hands. "I want to know who you sent."

It was on the tip of his tongue to say that it was none of her business, and it wasn't, really. But he owed her, and he'd worked in the business long enough to know when something was up. If they pooled information, maybe they would find out what was going on, because the truth of it was that what he had didn't make sense.

"The second one was a runner named Sidewinder. She was a Decker; she tried to break into the Pillsbury intranet from their connections to the Green Giant processing plant across the river. The first one-"

"What happened to that second one?" It was the low, not-quite-menacing voice of the dark garbed man.

Winston swallowed. It hadn't been pretty. "She hit some IC," He said softly.

"Did it kill her?" Mr. Smith asked hesitantly.

He shook his head, which was a mistake. For a moment the room spun around him, and he shuddered. Trying to cover that up, he faked a cough, and it hurt enough that he started coughing for real. He covered his mouth with his left hand, and gripped the arm of the sofa with his right, and did his best not to let the coughing get out of hand. He was not going to throw up. After he stopped coughing, he took a few deep breaths. His fingers were white from their grip on the sofa. He relaxed his hand. Don't think about how you feel, he told himself. Just address Mr. Smith's question.

"It drove her insane, and completely scrambled her deck. The first computer the tech crew used to analyze what was left had to be wiped as well." His throat was aching, so he lowered his voice a bit. "The tech crew said they'd seen plenty of black IC before, but nothing like this."

The dark garbed man asked. "What happened to her?"

"She's in St. Kate's Asylum." He'd visited her a couple times. She hadn't known him. Not like she'd known him well before, though, so it shouldn't have been surprising.

He coughed again, once. It hurt, and he forced himself to just sit until the urge was passed.

Madelyine held out a blue and white can. "They say you should probably have something to drink now."

Diet Strawberry Vanilla Pepsi. Not his first choice, but maybe something liquid would help his throat. "Thank you."

After waiting for him to take a drink, Mr. Smith said, "And the first one?"

"Similar. Worse. His deck was completely fried, and he killed himself within a week of being committed." Winston felt himself shudder, and tried to cover it with a shrug. "When I got the request for the third time, I didn't want to use another Decker. Seemed like the trouble might be with the computer interface, so I looked around for someone with the reputation of treading very lightly where computers and electronics were concerned."

"So that's why you wanted to talk to me." She had a half-smile on her face.

"Exactly, and you succeeded. I had arranged to take pickup at a booth in the Taste of Minnesota run by a Madame Zelda. I spent most of that week watching her work." It had been an interesting experience. A surprisingly large number of customers had come in, wanting to know their future or get advice. Madame Zelda had put on a pretty good show. The tent was the first part of it; rich silken hangings, beautiful crystal ball, and she used enough musk incense to trigger an asthma attack. The other part of it was herself. She had a way with people, a good voice, and the storyteller's art. The combination was good, and he'd thought at one point that she could have told someone the color of their hair and made it seem a revelation. He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering.

As if from a distance, he heard Mr. Smith's voice, saying. "She must have betrayed us, the bitch."

He forced himself to open his eyes again. "Someone did." He frowned. "I remember you coming in. There was someone else with you. I remember that the person who greeted you could have passed for Madame Zelda herself, but I knew it wasn't her." He shook his head. "I saw a van pull up outside, and I remember thinking that I hadn't called it."

"The Delivery Van." The comment came from near the kitchen. Standing in the doorway was a gangly young man wearing a shirt that he'd obviously grown out of. He was eating a large pickle, and looking pleased with himself. "I saw it. They were loading some people into it."

Uncomfortably, Winston found himself wondering when this boy had arrived. No one else seemed surprised by his presence. Winston glanced around the room, trying not to be obvious about it. No other strangers.

Winston took another sip of the Pepsi and continued. "Someone in garb to match Zelda's shot the two of you with a Trank gun. That was not part of my plan, but I didn't have a whole lot of time to protest, since they shot me next. I woke up in the lab." He took another sip of Pepsi.

Demetrius threw up his hands in disgust. "You steal from the company, and that lame story is the best you can do? What about all the money?"

Winston turned on him. "You arrogant, underbred, annoying excuse for a human being," His voice was full of rage, "Do you have any idea of the purpose of the recall lab in the first place? It's meant to get at the truth. I was drugged, I was scanned, I was tortured. I couldn't have lied to them even if I had wanted to. 'That lame story' happens to be the truth," Suddenly tired, he shook his head. "They didn't believe me. They weren't interested." Which didn't make sense. The usual purpose of recall was to ask questions. They hadn't asked him any, and they'd ignored his explanations.

Exhausted by his outburst, he sat back against the cushions of the sofa, and waved a hand slightly to indicate the neat pile of his belongings along the wall. "And to address the financial concerns you bring up, they never took the money; ergo it was not what they were interested in." He carefully rested his right elbow on the sofa, and leaned his forehead against his hand, ignoring the fact that arm was shaking.

"Hey, Selina checked you out." Demetrius' voice was hesitant now, probably because of the looks he was getting from the dark garbed man. "She had your computer traced, and there was no record of your so-called assignments. She checked with some of the ViPs, and nobody ordered you to commission those runs."

Winston sighed, still hiding his expression behind his hand. "So what is her theory?"

"Well, first off she wants to get rid of you."

For some reason that struck him as funny. Of course she wanted to get rid of him. He grinned, and then chuckled. The pain that shot through his chest was enough to take the rest of his breath, and he forced himself to be still. "I knew that part."

"Second off, she wants to know who else you are working for."

He closed his eyes. "I am not-"

"Okay, listen, man, if you are telling the truth, and you are getting high level instructions from someone that is not Abbot Northwest, then who is it, and how are they getting into Abbot's internal systems?"

He had a point.

"Selina doesn't like it when she doesn't know what's going on. Some of the VIPs agree with her."

There was a rumble of agreement around the room. Most of the people present apparently would like to know what the heck was going on. He knew he should be paying attention. He sat back, and crossed his arms across his chest, trying to ignore the pain in his wrists, trying to get warm, or at least not get any colder. Basic Issue was not the warmest of garments.

"Mr. Johnson?" It was Mr. Smith's voice again. He must have drifted off. Now that he was awake, everything seemed to hurt worse. He was tired now, and colder than before. He shivered.

He was tired, and cold. So very cold. He tried to explain that it was just the temperature. All that came out was. "Cold. So cold."

He felt a hand across his forehead. The hand was cool, and he couldn't help shivering. He should say something. He should at least open his eyes. He could hear something pounding loudly, almost like a heartbeat, but too loud and much too fast. The speed of it was making him dizzy, and lay back against the back of the sofa, trying to relax, trying to catch his breath, trying to warm up.

The Mr. Smith said something else, and he couldn't quite make sense of it at first. Something about sweat, and sickness. She couldn't be talking about him. He wasn't sick, he was just tired. And sore. And cold. He heard another voice say something about a DocWagon card, and locations and safety. It didn't really make much sense. He was cold, and sore, and shivering harder. He tried to curl up. He wished there was a blanket.

Everything started to tilt. He braced himself against the motion, just trying to breathe, just trying to hold still. He was dizzy, and nauseous. Eventually he realized that someone must be carrying him. He didn't need to be carried, he could walk. He should say that he could walk. Everything was spinning now, though, and the insistent pounding wouldn't stop.

He woke to a painful jolt across his chest. His back arched in response. He could hear beeping noises. Telemetry machines, like in a hospital, or a lab. Adrenaline flooded through him. Someone was pressing something against his arm, and he could hear the hiss of a hypospray. What were they doing to him? His eyes opened. Someone wearing a stethoscope was leaning over him from the right.

Fear and rage flooded him. They hadn't strapped him down this time. He sat up, right arm out, lunging forward and to his right, catching the startled technician by the throat. Pressing the man against the wall, he ignored the sounds of instruments scattering, and the startled reactions of other people.

"Leave me alone." He meant his voice to be menacing, but it came out little more than a whisper. His hand was already shaking.

The tech looked behind him. He could feel another hypo being pressed into his back.

Shifting his grip, he curled his fingers, pressing them around the man's trachea. "If I hear that thing hiss, I rip your throat out."

"Mr. Johnson," It was Mr. Smith's voice, coming from his left, and her tone was the gentle one she used when talking to Madeline. "You are in a DocWagon."

He focused on the man whose neck he was holding. Behind the tech were the curving walls of a van. He looked down at the tech's shirt. No lab coat. Paramedic's uniform. DocWagon ID badge. Out of the edge of his vision he could see Mr. Smith, standing just outside the van.

Slowly the paramedic raised his hands. They were empty. "We are just here to help you. You are in pretty bad shape."

Mr. Smith put in. "They say that you really ought to be hospitalized." Her voice made it clear that she wasn't too happy with the idea.

"No." He was not going to be hospitalized. His insurance was through his work. Check into an Abbot Northwestern Hospital before he had things straightened out, and he'd end up in another recall lab. Not a good idea.

"You will need ongoing medication for some time." The tech said. "The hospital is the best place-" The man tried to swallow.

He realized that he was starting to lean on the tech. Not a good thing to do, with his hand on the man's neck. His vision was starting to get a little spotty. "If I need medicine, then just give it to her." He didn't dare nod toward Mr. Smith, because he was pretty sure that he would fall over if he did. "My DocWagon contract will cover it."

A voice came from behind him. "Legally-"

"I designate her as my next of kin." He felt his eyes closing, and forced them open. No, he wasn't going to risk falling asleep again. "Just give everything to her."

He heard Mr. Smith's voice again, sharper this time, but he didn't quite follow what she was saying. Somebody was giving her instructions; times, amounts, symptoms. He ignored it. It was taking all of his concentration to keep himself upright. He could feel his hand shaking as he held the paramedic, but he wasn't going to let go until he knew he was safe.

People were talking all around him. He ignored them. Finally the hypo was taken away from his back.

Soft hands tapped at his left arm. "I think it's time for you to take a nap." It was Madeline's voice. "We are all done here."

She was right. But if he let go of the Paramedic, he would most likely fall.

Out of the corner of his vision, he saw Madeline climb the rest of the way into the van, then felt her arm go around him. She whispered in his ear. "I made the bad medicines go away. Now they gave you some good medicine. It's safe for you to sleep for a little bit."

Leaning against her, he let his grip relax, and slowly pulled his right hand away from the Paramedic. Glancing down at the man's badge, he focused on it. Daniel Braeshire. "Please accept my apologies, Mr. Braeshire. I've had a difficult week, and I apologize for my impatience with you."

Beside him, Madeline smiled, but said nothing.

Daniel stayed where he was, but his expression was concerned. "Mr. Smith, you really do need to be in a hospital. The drugs that were used on you have some unpleasant and dangerous side effects. You almost died here."

"Some of the floaty ones could see you, but then the little lightings woke you up again."

The lightings? Defibrillation, maybe? Never mind. It was better not to think too much about some of the things Madeline said. She was much more reassuring when she didn't make sense.

As she got him out of the van, he could feel the wind. As a matter of fact he could feel it pretty much all over. Glancing down, he realized they must have cut the coverall away when they got him in the van.

"Here." It was August Fleming's voice. He felt her hands wrapping a thin cotton blanket around him. She turned toward the paramedics. "Give me the other one." Before they could object, she said "Just give it to me and put it on his account."

She wrapped both blankets around him. He concentrated on standing, and let her and Madeline worry about the blankets. He looked around. They were on the east river road, just west of the Red Cross/Excel Energy complex. It was near sunset. It had been earlier. Whatever had been happening, he'd missed a lot of it.

He glanced at August, wondering what they were doing here. She nodded towards the center of the city, and pitched her voice for his ears only. "Didn't want to give Selena too much of a heads up. She'll certainly trace the DocWagon call."

Winston realized that Daniel was still looking at him with that sincere, worried look. "I thank you for my concern, Mr. Braeshire, but I am afraid that it would not be wise for me to be hospitalized right now."

"In fact it would not be wise," added the dark-garbed man, abruptly suddenly there in front of a now very worried looking Mr. Braeshire, "for you to report the details of this call too quickly, if you can avoid it."

From the look on the startled paramedic's face, he wasn't inclined to argue.

"Do you think you can walk?" Asked August, and then not waiting for an answer, she shifted the blanket so she could get her arm under his right shoulder, supporting him. "Madeline, take his other side."

"I regret the difficulty." He began.

"Save your energy for staying upright." August advised him. "We'll take you to Madeline's place. You need someplace to lie down.

"Madeline's place?" Mr. Smith sounded like she wanted to object.

"He's going to fall over, or worse, if he doesn't get some rest."

Mr. Smith's voice seemed to come from a long distance. "That is not what I would call a restful place."

There was more discussion, but he didn't really pay any attention to it. Then he was aware of struggling to make his way downhill. The blankets kept tripping him up.

He woke in dim light. He was laying on his back, on something curved. He was looking up at something curved. The light was that rich golden color that you only get in late afternoon. It had been evening, so he must have slept over a day. He remembered jumbled dreams of cramps, and the sound of hyposprays.

He looked up at the curved surface, and then realized that he was seeing movement out of the corner of his eyes. Glints. Beady eyes. He was being watched by rats. He blinked, coming more awake, and he was not reassured by what he saw. The curve he was lying on and the curve above him were part of the same thing. A very large sewer tunnel. All around him, watching him, were rats. Some of them were the size of medium dogs.

He swallowed, wondering if he should try and make a break for it, or just be very still.

"Oh, you are awake!"

He looked to his right. Dark furry shapes parted as Madeline climbed into the tunnel. She was wearing an oversized white t-shirt with a blue Pillsbury logo on it, and Basic Issue pants. She carried a sandwich in her right hand. It was still in plastic wrapping. "You really need to eat. In the night, you kept saying that you were not hungry, but you need to eat now."

His stomach rumbled its agreement.

"The rats." He said faintly.

She giggled, a high, happy sound. "No, you can't share, you have to eat the whole sandwich yourself." Reaching out, she ran her left hand along the back of one of the larger ones. A small fury form ran up that arm, and disappeared into her hair.

He swallowed. "I don't think I can eat anything right now."

She looked sternly at him, and as she did so, he was aware that many of the rats were now looking at him too, as if following her gaze.

Silently, he reached out to take the sandwich.

She smiled at that, and he could feel the tension level among the rats decrease as she did so.

"So," He took a bite of sandwich. "This is your place?" The sandwich was ham and cheese, and suddenly he was very hungry.

"You ate a little in the night, so now it's time to eat more."

She opened a plastic grocery bag with a Daytons-Marshall logo on it. Plastic things rustled. After a moment she pulled out an air-hypo gun, and fitted a vial of something into it.

"Some of the floaty ones are keeping us covered up, so nobody will find you." She came closer, turning the vial to make sure it was fitted correctly into the gun.

He was halfway through the sandwich when he realized that she meant to inject him with something. Hastily he swallowed. "No." He said. "I don't want any more medicine."

She nodded. "I know," her tone was bemused. "You didn't want any in the night either. But they told me all the ways it goes. When you have fits, you get the ones for the convulsions. When you eat for the first big meals, you need to have one of these."

He pulled away from her, and realized that the rest of the tunnel was filled with rats. He looked down, and countless merciless beady eyes met his. He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. "Madeline." His voice came out as a whisper.

Gentle fingers touched his chin, and he turned back to face her. Her eyes were darker than they had been. Bright button eyes, just like the ones all around him. He could feel goose bumps spreading along his skin.

"Hold still." The rats slowly creeping onto the blanket seemed to added emphasis to her words. He could hear the sounds of tiny claws on concrete. The brush of fur and tail against each other in the now crowded tunnel. They were watching him, and watching her.

He didn't move.

She moved a blanket aside, and pressed the airhypo firmly against his left upper arm. "If you move around, you might get hurt a little. Will you hold still now?"

He thought of a thousand arguments, and then he thought of the waiting rats. "Yes."

She pressed the injector. There was a hiss and a slight sting. She smiled, pleased. "Okay, now you can finish your sandwich."


End file.
